Killjoy
by BlueNavy
Summary: In which Tracer getting a new playmate sets Widowmaker off. (Bunch of WidowTracer stuff)
1. Killjoy

A/n: Character's thoughts in italics.

* * *

 **1\. Killjoy** _  
_

Crackfic

* * *

 _Tracer's happiness is a problem_. The thought occurred to Widowmaker one afternoon in the aftermath of a triumphant mission.

Much like clockwork, the girl had shown up right in the middle of an operation doing what she did best—pestering the assassin and hindering her in the most annoying ways thinkable.

And yet, despite the interference, Widowmaker had managed to outwit and outplay the brat, eventually ensuring the successful delivery of the payload to its stipulated location.

"No, no— _no_!" The Brit, having been on her case the entire duration, had shouted out in dismay as she watched the heli flew right out of range with the payload safely secured, and though Widowmaker wasn't much one for petty self-indulgences, she couldn't quite suppress the satisfied smirk upon hearing the distress in Tracer's voice.

The completion of a mission was always gratifying, but it was what came after that was truly _saccharine_ —and by that, she referred to none other than the look of crushing defeat on Tracer's face, accompanied by the girl's undivided attention as she hurled her routine barrage of childish insults and whiny trash-talk. Widowmaker had always savored such moments; they were truly her highlight of a job well done.

Yet, even as she waited (lingering in plain sight so Tracer could approach her with ease), the despondent sulking did not come that day.

On the contrary, despite her loss, the girl appeared to be in an uncharacteristically chipper mood, merely giving a shrug before brightly saying: "Eyy, well, better luck next time!". And then she was off, zipping down to the streets to chitter excitedly with her teammates without so much as a pout (or even another glance) in Widowmaker's direction.

It was all just a touch disappointing.

Not that the assassin was feeling neglected or anything— _non_ —it was just that Tracer's angry diatribes often served as fine entertainment to otherwise banal missions. In fact, she had gotten so used to them that victory simply didn't feel quite the same without.

Besides, there was just something about the Brit's cheeriness (especially in the face of defeat) that rubbed Widowmaker the wrong way.

Watching the girl from afar, and seeing her flit about all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before subsequently taking off with the excitability of a jackrabbit (right as soon as her team was done packing), she ultimately decided she much preferred the crestfallen Tracer over this uncannily jovial version any day.

* * *

It was the day after that she inadvertently discovered the root of Tracer's exuberance.

The two of them happened to be working the same assignment (in a rather rare alignment of interests), and together with Fareeha, they had been awaiting further orders at their designated choke point when the topic came up in conversation.

"So, how was your little date last night?" Fareeha was asking as she double-checked the ammunition in her rocket launcher.

 _Date?_ The assassin's ears perked up from a distance, even if outwardly she looked about as bored as ever.

"Oh, it went great!" Tracer enthused, great brown eyes lighting up, "He's honestly everything I can hope for! It's love at first sight, I swear!"

 _He?_ Widowmaker's brow arched and her lips twitched. She could have sworn Tracer was—

"He's just so sweet, and so adorable. Not to mention, doting—did I say doting? Gosh, I can already tell he's goin' to make a great cuddle-buddy for bedtime!" The girl just about gushed and the assassin felt her grip on the rifle tightening. "You 'ave to meet him, Fareeha, you'll love him to bits, you will!"

"I'm sure I will." The soldier chuckled, a sound deep and throaty, but sounded to Widowmaker like gravel spinning in a blender. "When are you going to take him back to your place?"

"Eyy, it's a big step," Tracer said, before looking down shyly and running a hand through her tousled mop, "But it's 'bout the only thing that's been on my mind for awhile now, I've simply been wanting it for too long."

Widowmaker could hardly believe what she was hearing.

 _Mon Dieu, thirsty much?_

"If it's the right fit, you should just go ahead and do it, you know?" Fareeha shrugged while wearing this sort of understanding half-smile, and Widowmaker had to resist the urge to shoot her point-blank in the face.

"Yea, that's why I've decided—tomorrow night! Tomorrow is finally gon'a to be the night that—"

 _Crra-cck._

Their conversation was punctuated by a loud, dry snap, and both Fareeha and Tracer turned to stare.

They stared.

Tracer had on this funny look as she gestured at the assassin's hands, "Um, hey, did you just snap your rifle in half, luv?"

Widowmaker looked down at the two pieces of Widow's Kiss cleanly broken in the middle, her knuckles still bone-white from clenching.

"This old thing?" She said tonelessly and with not a hint of emotion, "I decided I needed an upgrade."

"You only just now decided?" Fareeha's tone was one of incredulity. "Really? Right in the middle of a mission?"

If Widowmaker had a functioning gun, she would have definitely shot the woman in the face. Right there, in the face.

Tracer was still gawping at her, and she decided she couldn't actually bear to suffer her look of idiocy any longer.

Without another word to either of them, the assassin simply gave an imperceptible roll of her eyes, flicked her wrist to deploy a grapple hook, and sailed gracefully away.

* * *

See—problem, _non_?

Widow's Kiss wasn't cheap, which made Tracer's happiness a definite issue.

 _And why wouldn't it be?_

Widowmaker utterly despised the Brit-brat with a passion—well, as passionate as she could get these days. The girl was often going out of her way to annoy her, zipping around thwarting her plans and poking her Brit-nose where it didn't belong.

It therefore made sense why her enemy's joy wouldn't sit all that well with her, and logically, it followed that if the thing bothering her was Tracer's happiness, all she needed to do was terminate the source.

That was how she found herself camped out some thirty odd blocks away from Tracer's little trash of an apartment the following night, rifle sight trained on the one window that had the curtains undrawn. It just so happened to be the bedroom window, and from where she was at, she'd got a real upstanding view (her infra-sight didn't seem to work here and she reckoned the brat must have wallpaper-ed her house with mylar foil).

Should Tracer's little date come over thinking he's down for some sexy time—or as the French called it, _faire boum crac boum crac_ —well, he was in for a whole different sort of crack and boom entirely.

While she was thinking this, the lights winked on through the adjoining window, and even with the curtains drawn, she knew it to be the living room, because it wasn't like she'd stalked the Brit out only about a dozen times.

She's home, the assassin's mind instantly sharpened, fingers moving towards the dial on her riflescope to fine-tune the vision.

Her body was already tingling with anticipation.

 _Any minute now_ —any minute they were going to come crashing through that bedroom door, all hot kisses and entangled limbs and fervent caresses, maybe with Tracer moaning low as her lover peels off her top before throwing her down on the bed—or perhaps it'd be the other way round and she'd be the one doing the throw-down, because despite her small frame and naïve demeanor, she's actually really quite strong and looked like the kind that secretly enjoyed dominating her lover by pinning them down with the weight of her body before leaning over to leave a trail of kisses that would start out chastely from the base of the neck but then turn lewd once she moved right down towards—

— _Merde_. Widowmaker had to physically tear herself away from her rifle sight.

It wasn't like it was actually possible for her to be agitated or anything, but she did find her vision starting to blur and that it was getting uncharacteristically hard to concentrate, what's with the images of Tracer and her man-lover running rampant through her mind.

 _The nerve of the girl—_ she's thinking _—how dare she bring a man back home, and not even after a few dates. Has she no propriety?_

 _Youngsters these days can be so prurient._

No matter, just wait till she gets a clear shot of that boy-toy. That would teach the immoral vixen a lesson or two in celibacy.

With newfound determination, Widowmaker brought her gaze back to the scope, fingers straining against the trigger.

Yet, a half-hour turned into one, turned into two, and before she knew it, she'd been up there on the roof for a whole seven hours with still no sign of Tracer in the bedroom.

It didn't make sense.

It was already long past the girl's bedtime, but the lights in her living room were still on.

 _How long do Brits foreplay?_ She found herself wondering.

 _Could they have fallen asleep right after doing it on the couch?—How sloppy._

Then after, she was thinking: _maybe they are still doing it._

That last thought struck her with some sort of muted horror and left her with a dire desire to find out, if only to gauge the extent of Tracer's stamina.

 _Knowing such things would prove useful in combat situations_ , she reasoned, before promptly congratulating herself for her tactical perception. _Oui_ , Talon had indeed trained her well.

Getting up from her spot on the roof, she deployed her grappling hook and sailed through the city streets till she found herself landing on the window ledge of Tracer's bedroom (it was narrow, but it accommodated).

All was silent—which was rather quite a relief, because she wasn't sure what she might have done if she'd heard primal animalistic grunting coming from within—and testing the window, she found that it was unlocked.

 _Le ditz. The girl infra-proofs her house, but leaves her windows opened._

Sliding it up, she crawled in, landing on the tacky wooden floor with not so much as a sound. Rifle up and at the ready, she was all set to shoot Tracer's ill-fated lover on sight as she stealthily padded out into the living room.

The area was a general mess and looked more fitted for pigs to live in than anything. Days old take-out boxes were stacked atop weeks old ones, and the same could be said for the piles of dirty laundry littering the ground at sporadic intervals.

 _How absolutely filthy._

Her lips curled up in disdain as she delicately sidestepped all the sanitation landmines and maneuvered her way over to the sitting area at the far end.

The TV was switched on in the background—though it was playing at such low volumes, it might as well be muted—and the couple appeared to be in slumbers, as evident from the sound of light snoring coming from the couch. To whom it belonged, she couldn't tell yet, exactly.

Muscles coiled, she approached silently with her gun leveled, and as she stepped around, she found herself greeted by the utterly scandalous sight of—

—Tracer, soundly asleep, albeit sans the man-slut draped across her petite frame.

She wasn't quite alone, however. Curled up snugly in the nook of her arms was a mangy ball of a mutt—a rescue, from the looks of it—covered in a fluffy, bi-colored coat of cream and coffee, similarly snoozing away.

Widowmaker's lips parted and her gun lowered.

Not quite the lover she'd been expecting to see.

As though sensing her presence, Tracer twitched in her sleep and shifted, her nose wrinkling as she sniffled—once, twice—before hugging the puppy closer to her chest. The sight was sweet enough to make anyone swoon, and if Widowmaker were still capable of feeling anything, she might have probably melted.

But she didn't— _she no longer feels_ —or at least that was what she told herself despite the kindling of a small, unfamiliar warmth in her chest.

Tracer sniffed again, and it suddenly dawned on the assassin that the little Brit girl looked just about as lost and scruffy as the tiny furball sleeping next to her.

 _Like owner like dog._

Strangely compelled, and unable to stop herself, the assassin leant forward, cool fingers brushing away a lock of that infamously untamable brown hair from Tracer's forehead, gently tucking it behind one ear.

Then, as she made to leave, she paused, before turning right back around and taking a long, lingering look—not because she was _mesmerized_ or anything (gods, no) but because it'd rather been awhile since she last came across a sight so… untainted.

When she was fairly certain she had the image committed to memory, the assassin turned, retraced her steps back out to the open window, and soundlessly disappeared into the night.


	2. Discipline

**2\. Discipline**

AU. In which Amélie is an Econometrics professor and Lena is probably a naughty girl.

* * *

"—otherwise known as the Augmented Dickey Fuller test, in the sense that it's the OLS regression of Yt-minus-one on Yt, augmented by lagged values of—"

That's the tenth time now. That's the tenth time my eyes have wandered far lower than they should.

It's not appropriate and I ought to stop, I ought to keep my eyes properly glued to my lecture notes but— _blimey_ —it's so bloody hard! It's so bloody hard, now that Ms Lacroix has taken to pacing up and down the room as she speaks.

The sangria-hued pencil skirt she's wearing hugs her curves in the most tantalizing manner, and a part of me wonders if she's not fully aware of how distracting her hips are every time she moves to take a step.

 _Surely—_ surely I can't be the only one finding it hard to concentrate _?_ Sitting up just a notch straighter, I give the room a quick once-over. _  
_

Nope, no lustful ogling or slack-jawed gazes to be found. My academically hardwired peers are all but nose deep in their notes, pens scribbling away with much fervor. How they're accomplishing this feat, is utterly mind-boggling to me.

Honestly, did no one else notice the way Ms Lacroix's blouse is just 'bout two buttons shy of a downright inappropriate cleavage?

 _No?_

Ok. Just me then.

"—in practice, _T_ is not infinite, and so we need to choose a value of _k_ for our regression. Typically, we can make use of information criteria such as the Akaike or the Bayesian—"

 _Oh gosh._ Only the woman can make something as dry as _time series analysis_ sound so goshdarn sexy.

The way she talks—it's bloody delicious—how her tongue rolls out her sentences with this alluring cadence; how she speaks as though it's _such_ an exertion for the words to even pass through her lips.

 _Does it actually take as much effort as it sounds?_ I begin to wonder, and then not long after, find myself thinking what my name would sound like coming from those lips. I wonder if she'll mispronounce it (not that there's much to mispronounce), or if she'll simply mess up the stresses—

"Oxton."

—yes, I imagine it'll be something like that. I'm no linguist but, god yes, it'll probably sound something like: _Oakx-toan_ —basically my name, but with shorter vowels and a much sexier inflection—

"Oxton."

"Mmm yes," I sigh dreamily. "Yes, just like that."

I'm so deep in it, it takes me more than a few seconds before I realize something. I realize she actually _is_ talking to me, and shite!—I did in fact moan out in response. By this juncture, the whole tutorial class has just about gone quiet, and everyone has turned to stare.

 _Bollocks!_ I feel myself shrinking into my jacket. _This looks bad. This looks real bad. Say something, Lena—say something!_

"Ma'am," I manage to choke out before swallowing rapidly. "Professor Lacroix, ma'am."

 _Has she caught me staring?_

Ms Lacroix is still looking at me, her mouth turned down in this terribly disapproving look and I literally feel my blood run cold.

"A suggestion, if I may," her voice is glacial-crisp when she finally speaks. "Perhaps you ought to save your private thoughts for when you are actually _in_ private _?_ "

The class burst out into snide little giggles as if on cue and my face turns about as red as a European sports car.

"Ma'am I-I wasn't—i-it wasn't like that," I start stammering in a small voice before she cuts me off with a bone-chilling glare.

"After class, come see me _,_ " she turns away, but not before pausing to mouth out the word—" _Oxton._ "

And I'm left gawping in my seat, wondering if she really did catch me staring after all.


	3. Not the Only One, p1

**3\. Not the Only One, part 1**

Tracer finds out she's not the only one. [Part 1 of 2]

Post-reform Widowmaker (set 3 years in the future).  
Supercrack. Also contains pairings of Wm with other girls. If that isn't your deal, might want to avoid this one.

* * *

Tracer exhaled a sigh, one palm pressed against her forehead.

She didn't want to be here. Not at all, no.

What she wanted to do was spend a quiet night curled up beneath the sheets as she waited for her girlfriend to call back to base safe and sound but— _"It'll be fun!"_ Angela had told her. " _Three is a crowd, four is a party,_ " Fareeha had recited almost robotically, and _"please don't leave me alone with those two…_ " was what Hana had fervently whispered to her in private.

So eventually, Tracer caved.

She caved in to all the pleading and the adjuring and allowed herself to be dragged down—limply—to the mess hall for _girl's night_ , and as she sat now, surrounded by an impressive array of vodka, rum and other assorted spirits, the Brit found herself already starting on the path of regret.

For the uninitiated, _girls' night_ was pretty much synonymous with getting plain drunk. Always, the evening would devolve into its usual bout of mindless drinking games, and it just so happened the women had chosen to play a particularly immature one tonight. One that left Tracer wondering if two of them were in fact, truly years past their thirties.

•••

"Never have I ever waited till I was 24 to lose my virginity," Angela said this with a deceptively innocent smile.

Tracer drank.

"Never have I ever served in the British Air Force," came Fareeha's turn next.

Tracer drank.

"Never have I ever traveled back in time to prolong an orgasm," Hana chimed in, slyly.

And Tracer drank.

Having sensed her reluctance in being here, it would appear the other women—no doubt, following Angela's lead—had made it their mission to get Tracer stinking sloshed in an effort to loosen her up.

As such, the next ten rounds pretty much unfolded in a similar manner, with Tracer drinking shots after shots, until the little Brit girl—face flushed, vision blurring and about ten centiliters shy of acute alcohol poisoning—finally exploded.

"Bollocks!" She shouted, loud enough to trigger Winston's vibration sensors littered through the base.

"Enough is enough!" She waggled her index in each of the women's faces. "I'm halfway mullered here and y'all are jus straight-faced gigglin' over there. That ain't fair!"

Then, thoroughly indignant and landing on the first thought that sprung to mind, she slurred, "Never have I ever _not_ gotten 'round to kissin' Widowmaker. _Aha_. Now you guys all get to drink—"

"—Go on, drink!"

Only, nobody did.

To Fareeha's credit, she did make a show of taking a pretend sip, but once she glanced around and realized she wasn't quite the only one on the boat, she slowly inched her glass back down.

"Why are you guys not drinkin'?"

Silence, saved for the sound of Fareeha's nail-biting.

"Really?" Tracer's voice was more akin to a screech. "Are you guys for real? Even Hana?—Hana! Aren't you like ten or something?"

The Korean girl rolled her eyes. "Twenty-two. Old enough to _kiseu_ your blue girl."

"Seriously now?" Tracer's face blanched and her gaze darted wildly around the room. "Please don't tease me like this guys, please don't do that. Have you all really made out with my girlfriend before?"

"I… wouldn't say made out… it was more like a small peck…"

"Yeah, I so did. It was hot…"

"We kind of more than just made out…"

Came the simultaneous responses from the three women.

Had Tracer's senses not been dulled by the night's fill of drinks, she might have done something she would have truly regretted.

"How come I'm only hearing about this now?" She cried. "Did any of you even plan on telling me before?"

"I guess it never had the opportunity to come up," Angela said. "Besides, it all happened before you guys even started dating."

A chorus of assenting murmurs filled the room.

"Well, it's come up now! And if something had gone down between y'all and my girl, you bet I'm gon'a to be needin' explanations, details—all of it!"

"Maybe you should just let it go," Fareeha coughed, somehow managing to look the most guilty out of the bunch. "It's just never good to dig around the dirt about your girlfriend."

"Not knowing is even worse! I'm forever gon'a be wondering what you guys did with her and it's _forever_ gon'a kill me! I rather know the truth than let my imagination run wild!" Pausing, Tracer takes a large, voluntary swig of her vodka before sputtering: "I mean it guys. I want to hear it. I want to hear _all_ of it—startin' right from the one with the peck!"

For a moment, nobody looked at the Brit, and the silent fiddling of cups and straws ensued.

"Well?" Tracer demanded.


	4. Discipline, p2

**4\. Discipline, part 2  
**  
Part 2 of Discipline.

* * *

I'm feeling more than a little wary as I follow behind Ms Lacroix, our shoes making crunching noises through the snow as we cross the campus to where her office is in the Social Sciences building.

I've not had much great experiences when it comes to teachers or figures of authority and offices. Usually when I get called in, it's cause I've done something right round naughty that warrants a dressing down.

 _Have I done anything naughty lately?_ I try to recall as I press a finger to my chin. _No, I don't reckon that I have.. unless_ … unless this is about how I'd dropped the clanger earlier.

My cheeks heat up at the recollection.

I wonder if it's possible Ms Lacroix had noticed my shameful ogling all through that last class (or _worse_ , all through her previous classes). Maybe I hadn't been as discreet as I'd thought. Maybe she could jolly well tell I'd been fantasizing about her when those goddawful moans cracked through my lips, that's why she wants to see me now in private, to lecture me on how inappropriate my behavior is, how _uncomfortable_ I make her feel—at this point, my brain does the usual thing where it goes into hyperdrive and I start getting buffeted left-right-centre by all sorts of anxiety, like how Ms Lacroix might go so far as to file a harassment complaint against me.

 _Buggery fuckery._ If that does happen, there's a mighty good chance I'll drop out of uni entirely, probably change my last name from Oxton to Smith or some sort and scoot right round to Northern Ireland on a one-way plane. Ok, maybe that's a lil extreme, but I'll definitely be forced to drop her class and then after go bury my head in some secluded sandbox right where no one will ever find me…

" _Ahem_."

The sound of delicate throat clearing snaps me out of my haze. Startled, I look up to find that we are already inside the faculty wing of the SS building, with Ms Lacroix holding a door open in front of me.

She's got this odd pinch to her face as I stand there, blinking up at her for a full minute, before realizing she's actually holding the door open for me, waiting for me to enter her office.

 _Cripes!_

I mumble a quick apology before scuttering past her into the room, my feet nearly tripping over themselves in the haste.

This is the first time I've actually been in here, and the first thing I notice is how bloody _parky_ her room is. Which is odd, cause I can see she's got her windows drawn tight against the stiles and I can hear the low hum of her radiator working to churn out heat.

Ms Lacroix doesn't seem all that fazed by the cold—almost like she's _adapted_ to it—but I'm legit standing there with my teeth chattering and my body shivering inside my bomber jacket wondering why the wonk it feels much toastier outdoors.

The office itself looks as cold as it feels. The space is distinctly devoid of warm tones and bright hues, and everything from the curtains to the couch to the carpet, to her _artsy_ décor of miniature clay figurines twisted in elaborate dance poses (bloody hideous if you ask me) is of a structured grey-black-white coordination.

Not gonna lie, this place gives me a total bleakish vibe, and my level of dread only heightens when I spot the row of potted succulents sitting on Ms Lacroix's windowsill. All of them have droopy leaves that look so sun-starved, they are either already dead-brown or halfway in the midst of browning. I'm currently staring at them in confusion, trying to work out why they are even there at all and not someplace inside a bin.

"Oxton," Ms Lacroix addresses me and I instinctively click my heels together at the sound of her icy baritone. "Ma'am," I say, my hand flying up in a two-finger salute.

Luckily she's got her back towards me the whole time so she doesn't actually see this go down. "Take a seat by the table, please," she tells me over her shoulder as she closes the door with a click.

I'm about to comply, but my feet are all but nailed to the floor when I see her start to disrobe in front of me.

Ok. Really she's just taking off her winter coat, and I know there's not much erotic about that—but with the way Ms Lacroix is doing it? It manages to come across incredibly sensual.

My heartrate quickens by bout four paces as I watch Ms Lacroix slide one slender arm out from a coat sleeve. That same arm then starts to move up the side of her neck, caressing the length of it in this long, slow stroke up to her hair. Then, I watch as she starts rolling her head in this languid, circular manner, almost as if she's trying to stretch out all the kinks and knots of a _really_ tiring day. After she's done all that stretching and caressing, her pale fingers glide over to her shoulder, rubbing along the edge of it before shrugging the other side of her coat off.

Her luscious frame, which I've spent the better part of class getting acquainted with, is fully exposed when the coat falls off—literally, the coat falls to the ground—the woolen fabric making a soft ' _schloop'_ as it lands in a heap.  
 _  
_I've just… never seen anyone take off their coat like that before _._

With both legs bent at the knees, Ms Lacroix's got one hand on the door and her back in a provocative arch as she _slides_ down to the ground to pick her coat up by the collar. The fabric of her skirt all but strained against her hips as she stretches back up again, hanging her coat on the rack behind the door.  
 _  
_At this point my jaw is practically hanging off its hinges.

I'm still gaping at her when the woman spins around ( _because, what the hell was that earlier?!_ ), and I ought to look away, but the first thing my treacherous eyes do is dip downwards.

It's only for the briefest moment—can't be too obvious with her facing me and all—but what I see in that instance nearly make my eyes pop.  
 _  
_Instead of two buttons shy of a downright inappropriate cleavage, Ms Lacroix's blouse is now just _one_ button shy of it.

 _One!_

I'm not messin'. I even low-key blinked back to her blouse again just to double check I'm not imagining things.

Nope. Two, four, six buttons. There used to be seven, and her cleavage is definitely more pronounced now. To the point where I can see the cups of her dark blue— _lacy!_ —bra peeking out from underneath.

My brain just about explodes.

There's this unpleasant burn as my face turns sickly hot and a wet warmth starts making its way down my nostrils. Mortified, my hand flies up to touch it.

 _Not blood—_ I could faint from the relief. I don't think I've ever been this happy to see liquid snot before.

"Something the matter?"

My gaze snaps to Ms Lacroix's face. She's wearing her default half-scowl, so I suppose that can only mean everything's normal and she hasn't noticed me acting weird.

"Do you need a tissue?"

"No, no." I sniff, quickly wiping the snot away with the back of my hand.

Ms Lacroix sees this, her mouth pulls down in disgust, and I feel a bit of my heart chip away, as it is wont to do when beautiful women look at me like that.

"I'm fine. Just a small case of the winter sniffles is all." I say this with as much dignity as I can muster.

"I see," Ms Lacroix covers her own nose in a subtle movement, as if she's afraid she might contract whatever it is I'm afflicted with. Then with a click-clack of her heels, she walks over to her white, immaculate office table, settling down into her ergonomic chair before gesturing for me to do the same.

My feet obey this time and I sit.

"Now then," she says, steepling her perfectly manicured fingers before her—steepling them such that they now form a neat little triangle that frames her glaring cleavage with its popped off button and peeking bra. It's almost like she wants to draw attention to the fact and I literally have to bite down on my tongue just so I wouldn't do something stupid like point it out.

 _Is she doing this on purpose?_ A part of me can't help but wonder. But her face gives nothing away and all she's doing is just sitting there looking at me calmly.

So I tell myself I'm thinking too much. I'm thinking too much cause Ms Lacroix's got this rep of being a total professional, and my delusions must stem from some sick _repressed_ fantasy of wanting her to toy with me.

Look, her button must have popped off by itself sometime during that short walk between the classroom and the faculty wing. These things happen, especially in wintertime when the cold makes everything contract and everything shrinks, and you have the fabric already straining tight from the exertion of holding together tw—

 _Shite! Don't go there, Lena!_

I'm swallowing hard now, perspiration beading my forehead as I try to refocus my thoughts and my eyes at everything else _but_ Ms Lacroix's cleavage.

Unblinkingly, I settle for staring up at the collection of books she's got lined up on the shelf behind her, going through the titles one by one. Then when my eyes inevitably start to water, I switch to glaring at one of the ugly, faceless figurines on her desk, one in the midst of executing a flawless pirouette.

"Oxton?—"

"—Oxton? Are you there?" Ms Lacroix's raised pitch comes through the flush.

"What's 'at?"

I've been so focused on tuning out Ms Lacroix's cleavage, it appears I've tuned her out altogether.

"I was talking about your term paper?"

"My term paper?" I repeat, slowly. "Why, is there something wrong with it?"

Then, more worriedly, I ask: "Is it cause I used comic sans instead of arial for the font? If it's about that, it was accidental and I'm super sorry. Also, I know I cited the biblio wrong at one point, is that what's the matter with it?"

Then: "Oh god, did I fail?"

Ms Lacroix raises a brow at the onslaught of questions.

"The paper, _a comparison of regime-switching models_ , you wrote this, _oui_?"

"Yes. Yes, I did— _wee wee_." I don't know why I threw in the French, but it's too late to take it back, and now I've got my palms pressed atop my knees to keep my legs from shaking beneath the table.

 _Did Ms Lacroix just wince?_ It's really hard to tell.

"Right…" she draws out. " _D'accord…_ as I was saying about your paper, I find your discussion on Markov switching versus logistic mixtures to be well-balanced. It's not often I get that with contrasts."

"What?"

"The econometrics analysis part you've included is also clear and insightful—which is what I like to see. All in all, I must say your paper is rather impressive. Above and beyond the standard I've set for class."

"What now?!" My eyes are about as wide as saucers.

"Why do you look so shocked?" Ms Lacroix asks, astute amber eyes narrowing as they bore into mine. "It's not plagiarized, is it?"

"No! Of course not!" I'm pretty affronted that she'll even insinuate. "I mean, it's just… I didn't think… y'know, I was just copping together whatever it was in my head at that time." Can't quite tell her I was buzzed on cider when I wrote it.

Ms Lacroix frowns, not looking too pleased with the careless answer.

"I apologize for asking," she says. "But I must admit, I found it curious how you were able to produce something of this caliber. For one, the models you've used are outside of second year material—"

"I do advanced reading for all my classes," I interject, my voice tinged with indignation. Lena Oxton is _no_ cheater. _  
_  
"I'm pleased to hear that. I like my students capable of independent study. But I was also going to say, you always look so lost and distracted in my class, I was beginning to wonder if any of my material was going in—"

I think Ms Lacroix would be scandalized if she knew just how much of her _material_ had gone in.

"—you know, Oxton, I don't make it a habit of poking into my students' affairs, but from what I noticed earlier, if you can keep your boyfriend out of your head during class, I think your performance just might see a rise. Your paper is excellent, but there's room for improvement."

 _Boyfriend?_ My brows furrow. "I don't have one," I blurt. "No boyfriends, so it's nothin' like that. Nothin' like that at all—"

Is it my imagination or did a small smirk flash the corner of Ms Lacroix's lips?

"—it's just… it's food. I was thinkin' bout food. Earlier in class, with that y'know... that um, _incident_ , I was just thinkin' back bout this food video I saw on youtube, of people making crumpets and such, how they drizzle in the honey on the pastry a golden brown—mmm so good, ' _just like that'_ , y'know?"

Ms Lacroix leans back in her chair. She's wearing this look on her face like she isn't even going to dignify my blabber with a response. She doesn't.

"In any case," she says, smoothing right on over. "It so happens, all top-performing students in my class get an offer to be my research assistant for the coming break. Do you think you would be interested in something like that?"

 _Whoa._ I did not expect this, did Ms Lacroix just ask me to be her RA?

It's a great academic honor, not to mention the privilege of spending a solid few weeks by Ms Lacroix's side—I brighten instantly at the thought.

The thought of spending _actual time_ with Ms Lacroix as I help her out with her research. I figure she'll probably ask me to help her with a bunch of menial tasks too, like making her coffee, filing out her paperwork, heck, I'll even be happy to water her plants! Or give her one of those little massages when she's got her neck aching from all those long hours—

"Yes!" I sigh, happily. "Yes! Sign me up!" Then, noticing the look she's giving me, I cough: "I mean sure, I'm interested."

"Really? You don't even want to hear the full range of duties this job entails?"

"It's a prestigious position," I say in what I hope is my most sincere voice. "I'm just always looking for opportunities to broaden my academic horizons."

"Very well then," Ms Lacroix says, finally letting a smile crack across her lips. It's the first time I've actually seen her smile proper. But why does it look so sinister?

"Here's the applicant form for you to look over. Sign it, pass it to me the next time we meet." She hands me a crisp white sheet of paper. "I look forward to your _assistance_ , Oxton."


	5. Different Harbors

**5\. Different Harbors**

Someone requested a Mr&Mrs SmithAU where Tracer and Widowmaker are rival operatives who unknowingly got married.  
The two go head-to-head after they were (unwittingly) sent after the same objective.

* * *

She's forgotten the milk again. You've messaged her twice to make sure that doesn't happen, but oh—look, there she is now, ambling up the driveway empty-handed.

It's not like you are entirely surprised.

Lena's an abject failure at listening to basic instructions; it's one of the many things about her that pisses you off. Other things being the way she snores up a hurricane next to you in bed, the way she leaves her laundry lying in a careless pile on the floor (as though they'll magically disappear overnight—no Lena, that doesn't happen) the way she chews her food without her mouth ever closing, the way she laughs out loud at American reality tv shit.

Little things like that. Things that don't get advertised on the tin and you only find out too late once you've already put that ring on your finger and said the two dreaded words: "I do".

Four years now you've been married. How long do they say the honeymoon period lasts? Three years? Two? It feels much shorter. Funny how married life can change a person.

When you first met her, it had been electric. Lena Oxton was a bright spark—wild, passionate, spontaneous, a ball of endless thrills. You've always been a thrill-seeker, it was hard not to get drawn in.

Hard not to be too impressed with her either. Decorated RAF pilot by the age of 20, flew in a grand total of three different wars by the time her 22nd birthday rolled around. Survived the ordeal of being shot down five separate times out in the field, and not to mention, being personally handpicked for the trailblazing space venture into the Slipstream (the initiative eventually got scrapped, but you've read enough in the news to know it was a huge deal).

She'd claimed to be retired from all that now. " _Too much excitement to last a lifetime."_ Was what she'd said to you when you first met her in Dorado. She'd told you she found contentment sitting behind a desk, serving as CEO and co-founder of TraceTech, a successful startup that specializes in sourcing and supplying aviation spare parts to commercial airlines. You'd subsequently done your research on the company's net profit, and found that it ranged somewhere in the seven figures.

 _Not bad—_ was what you'd thought at the time— _so, Lena Oxton is wealthy too, she's got almost as much as you._

You'd also found her to be attractive, plucky, independent and (at that time you'd thought) somewhat intelligent. It was hard finding a person encompassing all these traits and you, being already in your thirties, had become something of the pragmatic sort.

Thus when Lena Oxton had gotten down on one knee three months later, against the backdrop of a purple Parisian night sky with the Eiffel looming in the distance; when she'd gotten down on one knee wearing a dashing tuxedo with hair slicked back neater than you'd ever seen (will ever come to see) and she'd popped that ring box open in front of you, great brown eyes sparkling prettier than any 18-carat diamond—you'd said yes.

" _Oui, ma chérie, oui. I will marry you."_

The foolish girl had cried, you'd found it to be sweet.

And the rest, as the saying goes, is history.

Literal history.

The romantic dates fizzled out five months after the honeymoon. The thoughtful gifts and sweet gestures weaned off not too long after, and now four years of marriage later, your sex life rates at a dismal 1.5 (and that's being generous) instead of the previous explosive 9/10.

Married life for you has all but devolved into a dull, tepid routine. The initial spark a distant memory.

Given what you do for a living, you tell yourself that you ought not to expect much. That this is probably about as good as it gets for people like you.

[-]

Dinnertime rolls about every evening in the household at half-past six.

Lena sits on one end of the long, rectangular table carved from an expensive heartwood. You sit right across from her on the other end.

Silence weaves in your midst, stretching longer than the physical distance in between; it echoes as it bounces off the walls and amounts to a pitch that can only be described as deafening. Most days you don't let it bother you, some days you have to convince yourself it doesn't.

"How's the food?" You ask.

Lena doesn't look up.

She chews with her mouth open and eats with her eyes glued to her phone. You fight to suppress the bite of irritation at her display of poor table manners.

"How's the food, _chérie_?" Louder this time. There's an accompanying sound of metal scraping against white porcelain as you cut your steak down to the bone.

Your wife finally blinks up, probably from reading an article on Aviation Digest about planes and the like. It used to be endearing how she's so much into high-speed crafts and custom jets. Now it's just become an annoyingly expensive hobby that she needs to quit.

Eyeing you for a moment, Lena stops her mouth in mid-chew before reaching her hand out for the salt-shaker on her left. Your eyes narrow significantly when you watch her dump a copious amount of salt on her steak and then on her mash and green peas.

"Food's ok luv," she tells you, flashing a wane smile before looking back down at her phone.

The rest of the dinner passes by in silence.

[-]

"Think I'm gonna be poppin' out for a bit."

Lena announces after dinner as you stand in the middle of your walk-in closet, fingers rifling through your impressive selection of designer clothes.

Passingly, you wonder where Lena goes all the time. What she is _really_ doing outside. You suppose any other wife would be concerned, but this disappearing act of hers works well in your favor and so you make it a habit not to pry. Lena affords you with the same courtesy.

"Just gonna go hang with the boys," she says, humming a casual tune as she pops into the closet, her hands rummaging and making an instant mess of things.

You don't bring up the fact that you've no idea who _the boys_ are. That you've not once, in four years of marriage, ever been introduced to " _the boys_ ".

Winston is the only person you know of, out of all of Lena's friends. And that's only because the great lumbering ape attended your wedding as Lena's best man. Aside from that one _singular_ name, there's no one else that calls to mind if asked about Lena's inner circle.

To be fair, it's not like she's met any of your friends either. Not the real ones anyway.

"What time will you be back?" You watch her peel a tattered looking leather jacket from its hanger before scuttering out the closet. "Our neighbors invited us over _remember_?" You leave out the part where you find it a terrible inconvenience. You leave out the part where it was her idea to accept the invitation in the first place.

Lena's wearing a sheepish smile when she pops her head back in. "Shite! Totally forgot 'bout that luv! Err… I think I'll be back probably 'bout nine-ish? That should still give us some time to head over for a bit…"

Then, her eyes drift down to the two dresses you hold in your hands. "That one," she says, pointing to the dress on the left, one with an off-shoulder-cut and color a midnight blue. "I like that one," and almost as an afterthought, she adds: "The blue brings out the color in your eyes."

[-]

You wait precisely fifteen minutes after the taillights of Lena's R8 disappear around the bend before walking to the garage and starting up the engine of your own car.

You've been wondering what sort of excuses you need to come up with this time, but Lena's timing had been impeccable.

Adjusting the rearview mirror, you are pleased to note that your makeup is flawless. The lipstick you have on is _lethal_ , as is the rest of your outfit.

You do, in fact, end up wearing the blue dress Lena had picked out. Honestly, you would have preferred going with something more risqué, something with a plunging neckline that shows off a bit more skin. But the bodice of the dress accentuates your curves and does the job well enough. Lena had been right too, the blue _does_ flatter the amber in your eyes.

Your mind flickers to thoughts of your wife, if only for a moment, before your fingers move to slide off your wedding band with practiced fluidity, dropping the jewelry into the glove compartment with a muffled _clink._

Gunning the accelerator, you pull out of your driveway amidst the sound of screeching tires.

* * *

Tonight's assignment: Hector Gallardo.

One of three acting lieutenants of the Wilcox Famiglia—an organized drug cartel with growing influence along the Atlantic side of South America. Hector Gallardo currently wields control over a vital trafficking route that passes between Guyana and Panama, stretching onwards to Belize. Somebody desperately wants to see that control relinquished.

A man of expensive tastes, he is known to frequent the high-end wine bar located at One Utopaea Tower on Friday nights. Has a predilection for pretty brunettes. Likes to chat them up and take them back to his place where he subjects them to more than just a little roughhousing—his idea of a good time. Sometimes, these women disappear. Sometimes they get off with a three days stay at the local hospital.

You think: here is someone you'll enjoy putting down.

You know it would be easy when, within a minute of walking through the door, Hector Gallardo waves off his bodyguards and swaggers over to your table with offers to buy you a drink. You accept, and he spends the next three minutes talking to your breasts with one hand venturing up the side of your thigh, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your dress. You let him touch you. Encourage it even—smiling coyly when he digs his fingers painfully into your hips. The sultry notes from a tenor sax play up in the background and you look up at him with come-hither eyes before leaning in to purr a string of heavy French accented words into his ear. Four minutes later, you almost have to suppress a smirk when he suggests the two of you go back to his place.

[-]

The whole mission takes all but 38 minutes from start to finish (travel time inclusive).

You leave Hector Gallardo a convulsing mess on the floor, his eyes bleeding red from a ruptured nerve and his lips turning purple from the poison coursing through his veins. The lipstick you wore had been laced with a particularly virulent strain of venom, _oops._

 _Really_. You could have just as easily killed him with a simple snap of the neck, or a swift calculated swipe to the carotid, but there's something almost poetic about assassination by a kiss, especially when it comes to people as debauched as Hector Gallardo.

His bodyguards outside hear the heavy thud of his body falling to the ground. They call out, and when Hector doesn't answer, try to kick the bedroom door open.

You had counted six of them when you entered.

It wouldn't be difficult to take them out, and you might have even had _fun_ doing it too, but one glance at your watch—8.25pm _, ugh_ —Lena would be home soon, not to mention you have that _infernal_ gathering at the Amaris'.

No time to play, even if you wanted to.

Stepping delicately over Hector Gallardo's body, you walk out to his French-styled balcony ( _good taste_ ) overlooking the cityscape and promptly deploys a grappling hook that latches to a distant rooftop.

There's a keen metallic whir when the contraption activates, and you are drawn swiftly away just as Hector Gallardo's bodyguards pile through the door.

[-]

8.56pm _._ You've driven back at such speed, you are pretty sure you've left drift marks on the road as well as the smell of burnt tires lingering in the garage. You arrive home barely six minutes before Lena's R8 pulls up the street.

She parks her car near the curb, right beside the trash cans, and blocking right in front of the driveway. You let it slide, because you worry about the smell of burnt tires in the garage.

She looks distinctly worse for wear when she drags herself through the door (well, worse than usual anyway). Her tattered leather jacket somehow manages to come off more ratty than before, and her hair looks about two degrees more windswept like that's even possible.

"Hey," she calls out tiredly from the doorway.

You currently sit with your legs crossed primly on the leather couch, one hand massaging your neck and one thumb leafing through the latest copy of _Businessweek_. The image is of a bored wife who's been sitting there the past half hour waiting for her spouse to return.

"Are we all set to go?" Lena asks as she turns to you. Her gaze lands on your midnight blue dress, hitched at the knees. You notice her lips part slightly and her eyes glaze over, and it takes you a second to realize she's checking you out.

Or maybe that's too hyperbolic. It's really only a quick up-down flicker—a far cry from the hungry, roaming stares she used to give back when you first started dating. You feel a small wrench in your heart nonetheless. A twinge of pride and something bittersweet to know she is still capable of looking at you _that_ way, even if it's to a small extent.

Inwardly, you chastise yourself at allowing this pointless stab of weakness, but as you rise up languidly from the couch, you make it a point to stretch your legs out in a way that you hope would draw out her attention a little longer.

It works, and her gaze lingers.

You think to yourself that she must really like the dress _.  
_  
Walking over, you surprise her when you take a small step forward and press a long, protracted kiss to her cheek (all traces of venom now wiped away). Lena softens into the kiss, and you are about to say something more, but you inhale, and you catch the faint whiff of alcohol, smoke and perfume clinging to her skin. The fragrance isn't one of yours, it's not hers either. Your eyes harden in that instance, and you end up taking three steps back.

"Shall we go, love?" There's a rare smile on Lena's face as she holds out an arm for you to take.

You brush past her and out the door.

"You are going to go _dressed_ like that?" Your tone comes out dripping with bite and contempt.

Lena looks at you with something like heartbreak in her eyes before quickly averting her gaze. She looks down at her tattered jacket drawn over a smokey grey tank and a dusty pair of light blue jeans ripped at the knees.

"Why?" She asks. "What's wrong with the way I am?"

"Nothing," you say. "I was only wondering."

[-]

You've said it before and you're thinking it now: the Amaris are a terrible inconvenience.

Yes, they are very nice, and yes they are very friendly. But their friendliness comes off awkward at best and a downright nuisance at worst.

You wonder why it's so difficult to have a neighborhood where people can mind their own business without having to go through the communal junk.

" _If we don't start blending in, Amélie, people will start thinking we are weird!_ " Lena had complained to you when you first moved in.

" _And if they start thinking we are weird, they start getting gossipy, and that's when they start digging around—you know how bored rich people can get. I mean, we could be looking at binoculars, telescopes, trash analysts, P.I.s following us around all the time. Do you_ really _want that Amélie, do you?"_

Though wildly exaggerated, you concede there might be some small merit to her words. That's why you'd said nothing when Lena ended up dragging you into befriending the Amaris. You'd done some research and the Amaris seemed to be the least of all nine evils living on your street. You think of your relationship with them as symbiotic. You make them feel good about their hospitality; they in turn make you look like any other normal couple on the block. _Symbiotic_. Doesn't mean they're not still a nuisance.

You and your wife are currently in the Amaris' lounge. The space tastefully designed with heavy red oak tones and bathed in orange lighting that gives off a warm, intimate feel.

Lena has her body parked on one end of the Amaris' white wool couch, and you have your body parked on the other. Angela and Fareeha Amari sit on an identical piece perpendicular to yours, Fareeha with one arm draped easily around her wife.

They look like they actually love each other. You wonder how that is possible.

The two have been married for 7 years now, been dating even longer when Fareeha was only 18. You know this because you've read their files. It's something you like to do to the people you end up playing _charades_ with in their lounge and who live right across from you.

Angela Ziegler—now Angela Ziegler Amari—age 37, renowned cardiac surgeon who graduated top 2% of her class in Harvard Med. Her wife, Fareeha Amari, age 33—descended from a long line of war heroes—is equally distinguished, having risen to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel at just the age of 30.

Busy, demanding careers, these women have. You wonder if they make time. You wonder if they also keep secrets.

Lena is now laughing obnoxiously at something Fareeha is saying, the two of them engaging in an animated conversation about life in service. Angela looks over fondly at her wife, and smiles. You look over at your wife, see her tongue lolling from between her teeth, and you can't help the eye-roll.

Not wanting to disrupt Fareeha's discussion, Angela soon turns her attention to you. It becomes fast apparent that the _doctor_ likes to _talk_.

She first asks you a series of questions about your work. You respond with the standard lines—how the economy is doing pretty badly and how the stock market has all but gone to _merde_. Then she asks about your travel plans for the holidays. You tell her there are none at the moment. She next asks when you plan on getting a dog. You tell her you are never getting one. She laughs this silly little laughter before mentioning something about Lena wanting a corgi. Then, she asks about you and Lena, if the two of you plan on having kids in the future.

She must have realized she's overstepped when she sees the look on your face, because she quickly apologizes before deftly changing the subject.

The conversation smooths over and draws on.

You make a mental note to yourself that Angela Amari talks too much.

[-]

"Do you ever want children?" Lena asks when the two of you lie in bed that night. She must have overheard your conversation with the doctor because she's never brought this up before. Between the two of you, it's just never seemed important.

"No." And you wait a beat before asking. "Do you?"

Lena waits a beat before she answers. "I suppose not, no."

The two of you lie there staring up at the ceiling before Lena rolls over to her side, and you roll over to yours. The two of you fall asleep, spaced apart.

* * *

On the outside, people know you as Amélie Lacroix, CFO of Reyes & Morrison, a securities firm specializing in corporate finance and trading. Beneath that façade, you are actually Amélie Lacroix, codenamed _Widowmaker_ , and key operative of Talon Cell.

You are one of the best operatives they have, your kill count and success rate racking higher than any other field agents in history. Your skills make you an indispensable asset. Talon knows this, as do you, and you wear this knowledge with a certain pride.

Given your talents, only the most important missions get passed through your desk.

" _Encrypted call incoming._ "

Ares, your advanced computerized AI informs you when your heels click through the glass doors of your sprawling office suite on Monday morning.

"Patch it in."

There's a series of dial tones before the raspy voice of your handler comes through the comm. Not one for small talk, he delves right into things.

 _"_ Urgent mission. Kill order in Morocco, Class C. Will you accept? _"_

"Yes," you say.

"Details will be sent to you via secure packet. You leave tomorrow morning."

"Understood."

[-]

You come home that evening to find Lena packing.

"Bit of a short notice, luv," her eyes do not meet yours when she speaks. "There's this deal the firm's been pushing for and I guess they want me down personally to finalize negotiations."

"I see."

"You going somewhere too?" She asks when she notices the overnighter bag you've dragged out earlier from the cupboard.

"Yes," your voice comes out stiff. "Urgent business trip."

Lena only nods.

She doesn't ask where you are going, she doesn't ask for how long.

Likewise, you don't ask where she's headed and you don't ask when she's coming back.

Lena retires to bed that night at half-past ten.

You stay downstairs in the living room, your eyes mindlessly fixated on some humorless sitcom on the flat screen TV.

Ninety minutes later, you slip quietly into the bedroom when you are certain your wife is already sound asleep.

* * *

From what you glean off the mission briefs, the assignment is clear cut enough.

Intercept the convoy en route from the mountain ranges of Jbel Sarhro and eliminate the quarry before they get picked up at the terminus in Marrakech.

You've carried out such missions countless times before, and apart from the sweltering heat enveloping the sand seas of the Erg Chigaga, this mission will be no different from the others. You go through the preparatory steps with ease.

Having analyzed the intel and determined the convoy's trajectory, you've decided on a point of interception 35 clicks Southwest from the town of M'Hamid, situated right in the middle of a ravine.

The location makes the most strategic sense, with the landscape consisting of open unobstructed flatlands that provide respite from the towering red dunes surrounding the area. Positions atop the rocky cliffs of the gorge would also present adequate vantage and serve as excellent placements for a sniper's nest.

Having set the location, you next get to work on establishing hot zone perimeters, arming c-12 charges amidst boulders and rock fragments, and erecting infra-red triggers in the sand. Detonation would activate when the convoy passes through and jolts the triggers.

It's all standard procedure. Easy in, easy out; you'll soon be on a commercial flight home in less than 24 hours.

Satisfied with your preparations, you retreat back up the cliffs overlooking the gorge, counting down the minutes till the convoy enters your line of sight.

[-]

" _Vrrrrrrr_ "

You are in the middle of relaxing with a cold bottle of soda, when you hear the sound of a low hum thrumming the air.

" _Vrrrrrrrrrrr_ "

Confused, you pick up your binoculars and make a quick scan of the grounds. The convoy is not in sight, and is not due for another 45 minutes.

" _Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_ "

The sound is much louder now.

What's that infernal—?

" _Vrrrrrrrrrrvrroooom_ "

No sooner the thought crosses your mind when a small, sleek jet shrieks through the air directly above your location. The craft is flying so low, the tailwind from its engines buffets your body and unceremoniously whips up the foliage surrounding your cover.

 _What the hell?_

Cursing colorfully under your breath, you immediately reach for your sniper rifle, fingers scrolling at a hasty pace as you dial up the magnification on the scope.

The craft's a Tiltjet. One of those small, advanced models known for their high speed and in-air maneuverability. Upon further scrutiny, you recognize the make as a CV45 Osprey Tilt; the knowledge gleaned from one of many aviation magazines Lena leaves lying around.

The pilot is obviously crazy, because they've got the Tiltjet dipping dangerously into the ravine now; its metallic underbelly dragging so near the ground, the substantial turbulence it generates inadvertently setting off one of your erected triggers in the perimeter.

" _Countdown sequence initiated_." Ares' flat mechanical tone sounds out from your laptop. " _Countdown sequence initiated. **Warning**. Convoy is still at an estimated 25 miles outside of hot zone. **Warning**._ "

"Fils de pute." You snarl into your scope. "Fucking idiot of a pilot."

 _What kind of an idiot flies this low surrounded by rock cliffs and sand dunes?_

" _Countdown sequence: 15 seconds before detonation—14. 13. 12…_ "

"Ares, remote disarm the charges."

" _Countdown sequence terminated._ "

White-hot irritation rises up your chest as you watch the jet climbs up the air to make a crisp Cuban-eight in the sky before dipping down in a fancy torque row.

 _Air aerobics? Really? In the middle of the fucking desert?_

"Fucking show off." You grit your teeth.

A few more stunts later, the plane cruises northeast out of the ravine, dropping altitude and landing amidst a cover of sloping crescent dunes just barely within your scope's magnification range. The craft is obstructed from view from the direction of the hot zone, but you can't risk the chance of an exogenous factor messing up the equation. Protocol would demand for immediate termination.

"Come out. Come out, you little _bug_." You mutter under your breath as your fingers tap impatiently against the side of your trigger.

The pilot disembarks, hopping out of the cockpit and landing on the sand with their back towards you. It's a hell of a long shot, but you are capable of making it. Your scope scrolls up to claim the head, putting them directly in the centre of your crosshairs, but right at the moment your finger squeezes the trigger, your brain registers the mope of messy windswept hair a color of brown sable.

 _What_ —

It's an _impossibility_ , but the implied familiarity of the sight jars you, and in that instance, it costs you the shot.

Your gun discharges, the elevated tension in your shoulders causing the bullet to deviate to the left, narrowly missing the pilot's head by about half an inch. The bullet ends up drilling the door of their Tiltjet, the ricochet instantly alerting them to your presence.

There's a part of you that is thoroughly shaken.

 _One_. You never miss a shot. _Two_. The sight of that windswept hair— _how_ —

You tell yourself it's not Lena. It's not Lena because it _cannot_ be.

Steadying your hands, you breathe in deeply, leveling the riflescope back to your eye.

At this point, the pilot is nowhere to be seen, having ducked behind the other side of the plane for cover.

You tell yourself if they are smart enough, they'll get themselves right back into that cockpit and fly their plane out of here.

You tell yourself if they do that, you'll let them go—if only by the merit of them having that sable, windswept hair that looks so much like—

" _Weapon signature detected_." Ares' voice, having picked up the wavelength from your scope feed.

 _What the—?_

The pilot has emerged back in your line of sight. This time touting a pulse rocket on their shoulders, one with a barrel so big, it obstructs the entirety of their head from view. The mouth of that barrel is currently staring you down from your scope.

You've still got the shot, still got your sights trained on your target. But something tells you you won't make it in time, that the rocket would be faster and the blast would vaporize you even if you do manage to pull the trigger.

 _Merde._

You throw down your gun just six milliseconds before a brilliant flare of blue burst through the barrel of the pilot's pulse rocket. You can almost feel the scorching heat nipping at your heels as you scramble to your feet, hoping against all hope you'll make it out in time before the whole place explodes around you in a blinding flash of white.


	6. Different Harbors, p2

**6\. Different Harbors, part 2**

* * *

You are angry.

No. That's not entirely accurate. Anger is a word too mild and not near adequate to describe what currently roils beneath your chest— _livid_ would be a better fit, and even then it falls short.

"I want to know who that fucking _bitch_ of a pilot is."

Words that hiss through your lips as your heels clack across the vast office pretext of Reyes & Morrison located at the Hightower building on 73rd Street Bauxter.

Around you, your underlings avert their gaze and try their best to stay out of your warpath. An odd few—solicitous and plucky—approach with bandages and antibiotic ointments to try and tend your wounds, only to be met by a vicious snarl that is all teeth.

Second degree burns—ugly blistering red that lines your midriff, arms and upper thighs—all sustained when that bitch idiot of a pilot decided to blow you up with a giant rocket launcher. _Really_. The burns hurt a lot less than the singe to your pride. You've been outplayed by some crazy _faire le clown_ in the field, and only because they were twittering around with a bigger toy than you've got.

Of course you are livid; of course you are indignant.

They are _not_ better than you.

"Get me my scope feed online," your words come out a strained staccato.

There's a tensed period of silence preceding the hectic scuffle as your underlings scramble to comply. From the central computer set-up beside you, Ares' dispassionate voice sounds out above the fray: " _Encrypted call incoming_."

"Not now."

" _It's your handler_. _It will be **advisory** to take the call._ "

In your already agitated state, your hands clench down into fists, the nails breaking into skin. There's something almost repugnant about an AI _advising_ you on things. Even more so when their counsel turns out to be percipient.

"Patch it through the headset," you grit.

A series of familiar dial tones, and the breathy rasp of your handler comes out harsher than you've remembered.

" _Widowmaker._ Morroco, Class C. I've just received confirmation the convoy touched down _intact_ in Rabat _._ What happened."

"We have been double-booked," you pause to inhale a short breath. "There was another player in the field. We engaged fire. The convoy must have witnessed the fall out from our artillery and altered course."

"So, in other words, you failed."

 _You failed_.

Two simple words, and you've never felt more chastened.

"Yes."

"Did you score out the player?"

"No."

"Did the player ID you?"

"I don't know."

"Did you leave behind anything that can compromise your cover?"

You hesitate the slightest before answering: "I abandoned all my equipment out in the field. Code Red was not implemented."

You don't bring up the fact that there's a high likelihood your tech has been rendered invalid by the blast from the rocket. Talon has no care for the what-ifs and the might haves. To them, the only value lies in certitude.

"We do not have a habit of leaving behind witnesses." There's an edge creeping into the voice on the line, an edge cold and unforgiving. You've heard it before, but never on the receiving end. "On account of your merit, I am allowing you 48 hours to clean the scene."

"Yes."

"After that—you know what happens."

The line goes dead.

You stand there with your knuckles bone-white and quaking. You are agitated and you are humiliated, and you stand there, allowing a minute for these emotions to wash over you—wash over, so you don't _forget_.

After the minute passes, you rein them in. Emotions are nothing but obstacles in the way of a job and you know yourself to be above them. Right now there's a mission to be accomplished, and only after you find out who that _brown-haired bitch of a pilot_ is, only when you have them choking and powerless in your grasp—only then, will you allow time for anger.

"New mission objective," when you next turn to address the room, your hands are steady and your voice is controlled. "Find me the name of that pilot. I want to know who they are, I want to know where they live, I want to know everything about them, right down to their dirtiest, shittiest habits."

[-]

Unbeknownst to you, halfway across the city—in the corner of fifth and sixth on Lenton—a brown haired bitch of a pilot finds herself sneezing uncontrollably as she sits in the middle of a dingy hardware shop owned by one Hana Song.

"Gods," Hana, 19-year-old tech whiz and surprising high school wash out, is huffing in dismay as she inspects the tragedy of a laptop brought into her shop. "Every time I see you it's one disaster after another. Please don't tell me you expect me to fix this."

"Can you?" The brown-haired bitch sniffs—a sound wet and sloppy—as she wipes off her nose with the back of one hand.

"Um. Like. _No_." Hana looks up at her with flat wooden eyes. "I'm not a necromancer Lena. I cannot revive things that are clearly dead. Look at it. What did you even do? Pitch it into a bonfire?"

"Try a MGR-360 Pulsehawk," Lena replies, dryly. "Listen, if you can't get it to boot, can you at least find out who the owner is?"

"You mean this piece of junk isn't even yours?"

"Not really. I just wanna know who owned it prior that's all."

"That might be a little tricky." Hana jabs the laptop's husk with the tip of a hot-pink screwdriver. "Considering this thing is totally fucked."

" _Surely_ , there must be _somethin'_ you can do?" Lena flashes the girl her best wide-eyed puppy dog impression. "C'mon Hana, can't you work your mojo? You are the best in this biz and if anyone can do the thang, it will 'ave to be you."

Hana shakes her head. "Sucking up and acting cute won't do you any good." So she says, yet she's already turned back to the charred remnants of the laptop, eyes burning with renewed vigor as she flips it over to place it flat on its back. Lena watches as she pokes and prods meticulously around the burnt plastic casing before gingerly prying open a thin, melted slot with her screwdriver.

"Think I might have something here, pass me that magnifier glass over there?"

Lena does so, and Hana brings the optics up to her eye as she inspects a small black chip extracted from the wreckage.

"Well?"

"Well… this RAM module's a little melted but… you know what, I might be able to track the chip for you."

"Really?"

"Keyword being _might._ "

Her words must have fallen on deaf ears because Lena is already cheering and doing a little jiggly dance whilst still seated in her stool; at one point, the woman almost topples over.

"How does Amélie put up with this?" Hana muses out loud with real bafflement as her fingers clack across the keyboard of the shop's computer, running the RAM's serial number through a custom software. A series of soft bleeps ensues as the system does its job. "Speaking of, how are the two of you anyway?"

The question catches Lena off-guard and she freezes in the midst of her embarrassing chair-top shimmying. "Um," she coughs. "Same old same old, I guess."

"You know I'm still insulted I wasn't invited to your wedding right?"

"Hah," Lena lets out a small laugh. "I doubt your parents would have let you fly off to Malta alone at fifteen. Besides, it was a closed-off service anyway, just her parents and mine and a few of our best pals."

"Sounds cozy. Must have been nice."

"It was." Lena murmurs, her eyes taking on a faraway quality as she turns to stare out the stained, dusty windows of the shop.

"Aww. Still seeing stars, Oxton?" Hana chuckles. "Amélie must be something."

"… She is."

"Never thought you of all people could be buckled down this long. I'm glad you finally found room for someone who makes you happy."

Lena says nothing, but the smile stretching across her lips is brittle and hints at rain. A series of rapid buzzing from the computer and the conversation effectively halts.

"Assa! We've got a hit." Hana is grinning as she claps her hands together. "Looks like the chip's retailed by MEKA, no name on the retail receipt, just a billing address."

"What's the address?"

"You are in luck, it's right here in this city. 73rd Street Bauxter, Hightower Building, suite A332."

"Come again?"

"73rd Street Bauxter, Hightower building, suite A332—"

There's an abrupt sound of palm slapping against flesh, and then a: "Holy shite!" Hana looks up to see Lena with one hand against her forehead, the blood draining from her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Bloody buggering shite! I know exactly where that is."

[-]

It's midday.

Most of your employees have filed out of the complex for lunch despite having accomplished next to nothing in the search for that accursed pilot.

There's not much you can do about it. Even an agency such as Talon is bound by State Labor Laws—a fact you find both baffling and regrettable.

Your mood is currently as dark as the mug of steaming black coffee in your hand as you sit at your immaculately kept office table, your shoulders stiff and your back ramrod straight. Taking an absent sip from your mug, you let the bitterness stew in your mouth as you stare obsessively at the scope feed playing and replaying on your desktop screen.

Even with the pixels now digitally enhanced and blown up eighty times over, the quality is still too fuzzy to make out anything of substance. It doesn't help that you keep getting distracted by that mess of windswept hair nestled atop the pilot's head like some poorly constructed nest. The more you stare at it, the more you really can't get over how much it looks like—

Your phone rings.

 _Lena._

This is strange. She's never had a habit of calling you at work. She's never had a habit of calling you, period.

You pick up the phone, one eye still glued to the footage on your monitor.

"Amélie? Amélie?" Lena's grating cockney chirps out in your ear and your first instinct is to roll your eyes (to be fair, part of you isn't even aware you do this. It's almost like an automatic reflex now every time you hear her voice).

"Why do you call?" Your tone is icy. It's no secret you dislike being bothered at the office.

"Sweetheart? Where are you?"

"At work."

"Ah. So you are still on that business trip yea?"

"No." Another subconscious eye-roll. "I'm back."

There's a brief pause on the line and then a quiet: " _oh_ ", Lena almost sounds disappointed. "When did that happen?"

"This morning."

" _Oh…_ I see—that's… that's fast."

A wave of irritation crashes over you and the eye roll builds up into a full-blown mouth twitch: "Why are you calling."

"Right. That—yes, I was just wantin' to ask you, um, what time's dinner tonight luv?"

 _"Mon Dieu_." If you were any more expressive, you would have smacked your forehead against the tabletop. Lena is so clueless sometimes. It can almost feel like she's doing it on purpose to irritate. "Dinner time has _never_ changed _chérie_ ," you snap. "Dinner has _always_ been at—" and as you are about to complete the sentence, something clicks in your brain, like a puzzle falling into place, "— _wait_. You mean you are back from your trip too?"

The sound of breathing on the other end intensifies before Lena finally replies with a: "Yea…?"

From the streets outside, you hear the sound of siren screaming as an ambulance passes through. There's a slight delay, and then the sound of siren screaming echoes out from the receiver of your phone.

Your eyes narrow down to slits.

"Where _are_ you?" You hiss, both eyes now staring hard at the footage on your desktop screen, at the pilot hopping out of the cockpit, their slender frame stretching _lazily_ moments before they duck down to the ground when the bullet drills their Tiltjet. You rewind the feed, playing through it again in slow-motion.

"I'm in my office luv." Lena coughs, her voice sounding tight and her words inflected in all the wrong places.

Your brows furrow. You hear what sounds like honking coming from her end, mingled in with the soft dinging of elevator doors opening and closing, the chime pattern resembling the ones you have in the lobby of the Hightower complex. Your heart clenches, your hackles rise. You tell yourself it's impossible.

It's _impossible_. But years in the field, and you've learnt to trust your instincts.

 _Pilot with windswept hair the color of brown sable. Lena going on a business trip the same time as you. Lena returning the same time. Lena acting strange._

There are too many coincidences at play here and the thing about coincidences is, you don't believe in them.

"Dinner's at 6.30," you tell Lena, before promptly hanging up on her.

* * *

Dinner at 6.30 pm.

Lena's R8 quietly pulls up the curb two hours earlier at 4.16 pm. Ten minutes later, she silently tries to slip in through the backdoor—

 _"Why are you crawling in like a cockroach, chérie?"_

—only to find you already there waiting for her in the kitchen.

"Christ!" Your wife jumps, looking more than a little startled. "Amélie! Jesus! You scared the crap out of me!"

"Did I?" You deadpan. "I apologize. I saw your car out front and I became _curious_ what you were up to. It's so rare to have you _sneaking home_ this early."

It's true, Lena never comes home before six, and she's only ever sneaked _out_ at ungodly hours.

"Just wanted to surprise you is all," Lena says without skipping a beat. "I missed you."

"Really? It's only been two days…" you drawl out slowly. "Then again, I must admit I missed you too. About this much." Your face is expressionless when you hold out a thumb and forefinger spaced half an inch apart.

Lena offers you a strange look. "Why are _you_ home this early?" She asks, an undercurrent of suspicion in her voice.

"Half day at work. Decided I would come back and make you a _special dinner_."

Lena doesn't seem too excited by the prospect of your special dinner. You see her eyes dart around the kitchen; they linger on the two boxes of rat poison near the sink.

"Sounds brilliant," she tells you, her tone lackluster. Gesturing at the black turtleneck and grey cotton slacks you currently wear to obscure the blistering burns on your body, she asks: "What's with the sweater and long pants? A little warm innit?"

"Not really," you walk over to her then, movement slow and deliberate. "I don't really feel the heat. In fact, right now I'm feeling rather _chilled to the bone_." As you say this, you lean in to press a kiss to her lips.

Lena flinches. She pulls back, and your peck ends up glancing off the side of her cheek.

"What's the matter? Why do you seem so jumpy."

"Nothin'... it's just, I wasn't really expectin' that. You don't—you don't usually do that—"

"Don't I? Well, today I want to." You slither over to position yourself right behind her, the front of your body pressing stark against her back as you wrap your arms around her waist. The extra five inches you have on her allows you to rest your chin easily in the nook of her neck. Lena visibly stiffens.

"How was the _business trip,_ chérie?" Your voice is low as you breathe heat into her ear.

"It was ok." You watch the tiny knot in her throat bob up and down as she swallows. "How was yours?"

"Mine could have fared better, really." Your arms tighten around her little ribcage, hands taking the opportunity to pat her down—no guns or concealed weaponry as far as you can tell. "I guess you could say, things really _blew up in my face._ "

It's not your imagination; Lena's heartrate goes up by several beats per minute. You can feel her overworked heart hammering away beneath her ribcage as you dig your nails into her skin—

The oven dings, your wife takes the opportunity to pull herself free. You let her go, eyeing her like a hawk as she scurries over to the kitchen appliance.

"Mmm smells good! Looks like this meat loaf's ready! I'm so famished, shall we push dinner forward?" Lena is blabbering as she hastily opens the oven door with a pair of kitchen mitts. "Let me just bring this out to the table alright?" And she scampers away without waiting for your reply, plate of steaming meatloaf stolen in her hands.

You think to yourself that there's definitely something wrong with her. Deep down, you are praying that it doesn't turn out to be what you think it is.

[-]

For the first time in four years of marriage, dinnertime rolls about early in the household at 4.45 pm.

Lena sits on one end of the long, rectangular table carved from an expensive heartwood. You sit across from her on the other end.

Silence weaves in your midst, stretching longer than the physical distance in between. Most days it chips away at you, today you find yourself preferring it to the alternative.

"You try somethin' new, luv?" Lena asks from across the table.

You do not look up. You chew daintily with your mouth closed and you push your food delicately around your plate before forking another stem of broccoli between your lips.

"Luv?" Lena asks, louder this time. There's an accompanying sound of metal clinking against glass as she taps a knife against her wine stem. "Amélie? Oi!"

You finally blink up at her from the tiresome chore of inspecting your nails. " _Quoi_?"

"Did you add something new to this meatloaf?"

" _Oui._ " You smile at her, sweetly. "Do you like it?"

"What's in it?" Lena looks worried.

 _"_ Nothing much, I'm surprised you could tell at all."

"What did you add?"

"Just a little peppercorn, basil, rosemary and arsenic."

"Oh ok, peppercorn, rosemary and… wait, WHAT?!" Lena's mouth hangs open in mid-chew, her face turning as white as a sheet. "Did you… did you just say arsenic?" She chokes.

"No." You look at her oddly. " _Parsnip_. Are you sure everything's alright _chérie_? You've been acting strange ever since you came home."

Lena doesn't reply, you see her discreetly bring a paper napkin up to her mouth.

 _Something is definitely wrong._

"My poor _petit chou_ ," you say in a soothing voice. "It must be because you are so tired, aren't you? Maybe a little wine to loosen you up?"

"No thanks…" Lena starts to protest, but you've already gotten up from your seat and sashayed over to her side of the table, taking her empty wineglass into your hand.

As the wine pours out, you find yourself looking down at your wife. You see the veins in her neck throbbing beneath pale, translucent skin, and you see her legs bouncing up and down restlessly beneath the tabletop—it's a quirk she has whenever she is extremely nervous. Or whenever she's hiding something _._

The wine goes past the halfway mark of the glass and you gracefully rotate the bottle away from you as you cease pouring. _It's now or never._ Handing the glass back over to Lena, you pause, before casually letting the bottle slip out from your grip—

—in the blink of an eye, Lena's hand shoots out, reflexively catching the bottle in her right even as she accepts the wine glass with her left. There's a brief moment where her gaze snaps up to meet yours, her eyes infinitely wide.

If there were a timer present, her reaction time would have been clocked at 0.128 seconds, well below the human average of 0.250 when exposed to a visual stimulus. The ability is one that is cultivated, not born with.

Your mouth parts.

Lena lets go of both the glass and the bottle. They fall to the ground, ruby red pumping out and soiling the priceless Venetian carpet lining the floor.  
 _  
Oh dear God._

There's no denying it now, the evidence lines up. Lena is an agent. A _hostile_ —that last word triggers something inside you and almost on instinct, your foot lashes out, kicking the leg of Lena's chair from underneath her.

Your wife is quick—she springs up in time just as the wooden furniture clatters to the floor—but it turns out you are just that little bit faster. Before she can react further, you've already grabbed the nearest object in your reach—a white porcelain gravy boat—and you smash it unceremoniously into her face.

You hear a loud, sickening _crunch_ , followed by a piercing cry as the dish connects with her nose. There's a pause in the thrum of things as Lena stares down at the fresh red now staining her fingertips and then back up at you with something like disbelief.

"You broke my nose," she says, stunned. " _Amélie_ , you broke my nose."

And you couldn't resist the urge to roll your eyes. Lena's always had a knack for exaggeration. You know what a broken nose looks like and what she has is nothing but a tiny nosebleed. Nothing compared to the _second degree burns_ you suffer on nearly one-third of your body.

"Suck it up," you tell her. There's an instantaneous effect whereby Lena's face collapses and her lips thin out, and she lunges at you, tackling you down to the ground.

You think: it's like being attacked by a puppy.

You wrap your legs easily around her waist and twist, and now you are on top of her.

Lena bucks under you.

"No point struggling, _chérie,"_ you hiss low into her ear. "We both know I'm the stronger one here."

It's true. The two of you have done a lot of play wrestling in the past and needless to say, you always come out on top.

" _Ohh_ _sweetie_ , oh _luv_." Somehow even with all the blood running down her face, Lena still manages to come across condescending. You barely have time to wonder why. There's a sudden sharp pinch in your neck and then an abrupt rush of air as Lena takes you completely by surprise, and she flips you over onto your back, small hands slamming you hard into the ground.

 _What the?—the little shit!_

Your eyes widen. You gnash your teeth at her, shoulders pushing forward and muscles straining from exertion as you try to force your way out from underneath. To your consternation, you find that Lena's just as strong as you are, and with the weight of her body now straddling atop of yours, she has the added advantage.

"All part of the cover, _sweetheart_." She mouths out grimly, droplets of blood splattering down her nose and onto your face as she leans forward to pin both your wrists above your head.

 _Is your slovenliness part of it too?_ You can't help but think with much venom.

The current position you are in is entirely foreign to you. Amélie Lacroix is never one at the bottom, Amélie Lacroix does not get pinned down _ever_. The more you think about this, the more infuriated you get and your rage eventually culminates in a bout of incensed, violent thrashing.

The futility of your efforts soon becomes apparent when Lena's hold does not relinquish and she continues bearing down at you with her maddening blood-smeared face. _It's not working!—_ you snap at yourself to stop— _you need to get out of this, Amélie. Think._

Inhaling a deep breath, you force yourself to relax, gradually letting your body go limp as you lie there on the ground, your head turned to the side in some measure of defeat. After a beat, Lena's body subconsciously relaxes along with yours—

"That's it," she tells you. "Good girl, now you just take it easy so we…"

—and you take the opportunity to muster every ounce of strength, jamming your knee up into her groin.

" _Fokin'—!_ "

It must have really hurt, because you've never heard Lena scream like that. Not even in the midst of her greatest climax. Keeling over, she slumps to the floor, her features twisting in agony as she cups both hands to her crotch.

Rationally, what you ought to do now, is snap her little chicken neck right there. But you are all but rational at the moment. Your emotions are a mess, and your thoughts are in jumble.

Picture this scenario: you find out after four years of marriage that everything about your union has been a complete and utter lie.

Coincidences don't happen, not of this magnitude, not to this degree of implausibility. Talon has more than its fair share of bitter competitors and you are the best agent Talon has. Somewhere along the way, one of the rival agencies must have found out and sent Lena after you like the mark that you are.

You've been made a fool of, and you don't even know.

Your mind flashes back to Lena on the night of the proposal, kneeling down in front of you with her hair full of gel and a mouth full of promises; Lena, with her hands trembling atop the dining table of that corner French bistro when she told you that she was _falling_ , and she might never wish to stop; Lena, the things she made you feel when you made love to her a tender sort and she'd looked up at you with those big brown eyes too innocent to hurt, too kind to break—

 _Fuck._ A hard lump forms in your throat, it doesn't go away. _Fuck, Amélie. Fuck._

 _What a total fool you've been._

Lena's played you like a fiddle, and you've all but fallen for her doe-eyed act: hook, line and sinker. To think, four years—four fucking years of a _lie_.

The uncharacteristic wave of emotions threatens to overwhelm and you are suddenly bogged by the dire desire to get out of there. You need space to clear your head, before Lena recovers and you end up doing something you are not entirely sure you won't regret. Without thinking, you make for the front door.

Lena's R8 is hanging off the side of the curb, her key still in the ignition. You realize with a bitter taste that she must have left it there for quick getaway after she's all but done with you.

"Amélie!" You hear Lena's voice calling out from behind. "Amélie stop!"

Turning, you see her half-limping, half-running out the front door, her weight leaning heavier on her left and her legs awkwardly knocked at the knees.

"Amélie, you come back here! You come back here right now or I swear to god—"

You tune her out and jump into the car, your knuckles clenching white on the steering wheel as you gun the accelerator down the street.

From the rearview mirror, you see Lena dashing for the garage. She must be going for your SUV—but what is she going to do? _Run you off the road?_ The R8 is smaller and more vulnerable to impact, but the V10 plus engine it possesses makes it a lot faster. Regardless of what Lena plans on doing, you are confident she'll never catch up, not with the head start you've been given.

But as it turns out, you must have grossly underestimated how good of a driver your wife is, because as you wind through the myriad of curves and bends leading down the hill from your rich-people estate, you soon see the high-beams of a white SUV barreling down the streets after you, and only getting closer by the minute.

A particularly sharp bend comes up on the road and there's a harrowing moment where you fear you might actually lose control and sail right through the crash barrier—but you decelerate, and you manage to drive right by, albeit clunkily.

Looking up in the rearview mirror, you see Lena— _the little shit Lena_.

Picture this scenario: a white SUV, that is really fucking bulky, drifts (flies) through a sharp bend without the acceleration even slowing.

You bite down hard on your lips. You taste copper.

Lena's subsequent loud honking from behind, and you start to regret not snapping her neck when you could.

The proximity between the two of you is steadily bridging now; the SUV charging towards you until finally, Lena pulls up alongside, her hands making rapid gestures you can't quite make out from your peripheral. The two of you lean into a bend, your cars side by side, and then another one, much narrower, and that's when the flank of Lena's SUV rams into the side of your car, the impact causing your little R8 to swerve wildly and nearly straight into a hulking tree.  
 _  
Oh mon Dieu._

There's a poignant moment of hurt when it finally sinks in that your wife—your _fake_ wife—is in fact, trying to kill you. And unlike you, she certainly has no qualms about doing it. _Why_. It's only about the second time she's attempted it now, and hell it'll be if you let her strike for a third.

Hell it will be if you let her strike for a third.

The thought streaks through your mind fierce and hot: _Non._ This is not going to be how it ends for you. This is not going to be the way Amelie Lacroix goes down.

Right beside you, Lena is still honking wildly, the girl trying her best to distract.

"Fuck you," you hiss out loud in the car, even if Lena doesn't hear. You would have flipped her the finger too if your hands weren't so busy on the wheel.

The two of you speed through another 100 feet on the hillside road, and you see a familiar sign turn up on your windscreen, warning you of a steep bend coming up, this one located near the edge of the hill. There's a darkened raincloud simmering in the forefront of your mind and you find yourself thinking that Lena's not the only crazy heartless one here, because really, two can play the little game.

The sides of the road flash by in a blur as the two of you race towards the bend—your car on the outer edge—but instead of leaning into it this time, your hands wrench down viciously on the steering wheel. You can feel the harsh impact from the way your teeth judder in your mouth and your brain rattling in your skull as you smash the side of your car right into Lena's—effectively preventing her from turning.

She must have realized what you were trying to do, because her car suddenly drops momentum and she tries to decelerate—but it's a little too late. The two of you had simply been going too fast.

At the very last minute—right before your R8 guides her SUV off the road and straight through the metallic crash barrier—you afford yourself a brief moment where you turn, see Lena's mouth wide open in a long, soundless scream, before you fling open the door of the car and hurl yourself out into the night with careless abandon.

Your body tucks into a protective curl as you slam hard into rough asphalt.

It's a miracle you are even alive.

You lie there in the middle of the road, bruised, broken and bloodied, the dreadful cacophony of metal twisting and shrubbery crunching under rubber wheels sounding loudly from behind you as Lena, the SUV, the R8—the whole lot of it—careen headfirst down the hill.


End file.
